


understanding may outweigh the surgeon's knife

by logicalspecs



Series: modern au les mis! [2]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Chronic Illness, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I am not a doctor, Multi, Sickfic, i just wanted to write about joly using a cane and then this happened, this was way longer than anticipated
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-23
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:48:11
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26058235
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/logicalspecs/pseuds/logicalspecs
Summary: As a kid, it had been more of a germaphobe thing, what with the frequent washing up and the hesitance to shake hands; he hadn't quite turned into the embodiment of WebMD yet, always spouting the worst case scenarios when confronted with even the least consequential of symptoms. Then, the ringing in his ear started.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables), Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta
Series: modern au les mis! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1891693
Comments: 8
Kudos: 42





	understanding may outweigh the surgeon's knife

**Author's Note:**

> hello! like i said in the tags, i am in no way a doctor, so please take all medical practices in this fic with a grain of salt and please correct me if i am wrong in any way! i do not personally suffer from any of the conditions in this fic, and mean no disrespect to those who do. if there is something that is harmful or inaccurate in anyway please please let me know
> 
> the title is a line from the hippocratic oath.
> 
> TW: vomiting, discussions of meniere's disease, descriptions (though not graphic) of medical testing and surgeries. if there are any more please let me know!
> 
> i hope you enjoy!

Sometimes, it's hard for Joly to go out; after a restless night or some kind of high stress situation. Whether it’s too much energy, or not enough, it sends his brain into a sort of overdrive of catastrophic thinking, his thoughts whizzing from one possibility to the next. It's dizzying at times, a feeling which only lends to his worry.

He does a full sanitization of his dorm when his adrenaline runs too high, an outlet for his nervous energy and a reassurance at the same time. Other days, he’ll just stay in bed where he can tell himself it’s safe, he’s safe, it’s fine.

He’s always been like this, to some extent. In kindergarten, he was the first kid in line to wash their hands before snack time. He'd always carried a little bottle of hand sanitizer with him, one of those fun scented ones from _Bath and Body Works_. His mom would get him different little pouches to carry them in, leading this habit to be more of a conversation starter than a reason for teasing. Small mercies.

At that point, it had been more of a germaphobe thing, what with the frequent washing up and the hesitance to shake hands; he hadn't quite turned into the embodiment of _WebMD_ yet, always spouting the worst case scenarios when confronted with even the least consequential of symptoms. Then, the ringing in his ear started.

It wasn't too bothersome at first, just a sort of distant noise, but he certainly noticed it. He was in his second year of medical school at this point, overworked and overtired, and had just assumed it was a mild case of tinnitus, or some sort of issue caused by the stresses of his coursework. He ignored it, thinking it would go away with time.

It only really affected him during quiet moments; when he was studying alone in the silence of a nearly vacant library, or trying to get what little sleep he could, staring at the panelled ceiling and wondering if the ringing was just the air conditioning system running high. He took to playing music in headphones as he worked, mostly piano instrumentals (lyrics would just distract him further), and bought a white noise machine for when it got particularly bad at night.

He managed, and worked through it. It was bothersome, sure, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

Then came the strange feeling of pressure in his ear. He wasn't quite sure how to describe it at the time, almost as though there was something pressing against his eardrum. He tried to pop his ears, like on an airplane, but one of them stayed stubbornly stagnant. It was at this point he started to worry, a nagging sort of feeling that raised the hairs at the nape of his neck.

But, finals were coming up and he had to focus. He shoved any stray thoughts of his strange ailment to the back of his mind and filled their vacant spot with the names of various diseases, their symptoms, and their causes. 

It was just after his final exam of the term, for one of his anatomy classes, when it all came to head. He was exhausted, practically dead on his feet as he dragged himself from the lecture hall, stretching his wrist in an attempt to quell the ache that resided there. Bossuet, his new friend (who he had met through rather disastrous circumstances including a fountain and a dog), was waiting for him outside the hall, leaning against a panel (the graphic printed on it showed the face of a smiling medical student paired with some sort of motivational quote, and Joly scowled at it), his hands shoved in his pockets as he whistled.

Bossuet smiled upon seeing him, eyes lighting up as his blinding grin spread across his face. Joly couldn't help but smile back, despite the deep rooted ache in his bones. Bossuet seemed to have that effect on people, brightening every room he entered, even in spite of his own frequent misfortune.

It was then, as Joly moved to join his friend through the crowded hall, the students flooding from their exams filling the walkway with idle chatter, that the vertigo hit.

He stumbled forward, knocking elbows with a few students, some of whom let out quiet exclamations that fell on ringing ears. He ended up falling against Bossuet's chest, the soft fabric of his t-shirt pressing against Joly’s cheek, but he couldn't take the time to register any embarrassment before he was heaving onto the tiled flooring. Distantly, beyond the shrill sound in his ears, he could hear Bossuet frantically calling his name as he dropped to his knees, hitting the floor with a dull _thud_ that sent another shock through his system.

His hands, clammy and bumbling, scrambled for purchase at the tiles beneath him. There was commotion all around him, but he could focus on nothing but the resounding whistle in his ear, the swirling in his stomach, and the burning at the back of his throat. He wrapped a desperate arm around his abdomen as he coughed up more bile. He hadn’t eaten anything before his exam.

He fell into a sort of daze, nearly blacking out entirely. When his mind came back to him, he found himself slumped over a small trash can, the metal cool against his sweating palms. Bossuet held his fringe out of his eyes with a slightly trembling hand as the other rubbed soothing circles into his back. His brain and his stomach felt like mush, and his throat burned. The ringing was still there, though less overpowering now.

"Joly?" Bossuet's voice was endearingly soft, and it was at this point, as he heaved into a trash can in the middle of a crowded hall, that Joly realized he was sort of in love with Bossuet.

The bout of vertigo lasted nearly an hour, and Bossuet stayed at Joly's side the entire time, murmuring quiet words about everything and nothing at all. About half way through, Bossuet proposed they migrate to the bathroom. Joly immediately threw up again the moment he stood, so Bossuet carried him the rest of the way, letting Joly rest his head against his shoulder.

As they made their way through the halls, Joly clutching his little trash can with one hand and the other strewn around Bossuet’s neck, a few concerned students offered to call for the on-campus nurse, or even for an ambulance, but Joly waved them off. Bossuet looked a little hesitant at dismissing the help, but Joly assured him, with a less than reassuring slur to his words, that he was fine. 

“Just a little overwhelmed,” He said, staring at a point beyond Bossuet’s shoulder, firmly not meeting the concerned gaze he knew would be on his friend’s face. “I didn’t eat breakfast this morning.”

Bossuet scolded him gently for that, and settled him in the handi-cap stall of the restroom, since it gave enough space for them both to fit. There was an itching at the back of Joly’s mind that resented having to sit on the floor of a public bathroom, but the swirl of his stomach overruled any hesitance as he dropped in front of the toilet.

Bossuet sat with him for the next half hour, alternating between brushing his bangs from his face as he heaved over the toilet bowl and just being a comforting presence at his side. When it seemed that the nausea and vertigo had finally lapsed, Bossuet offered him a drink from his water bottle.

The water barely washed away the sour taste in his mouth, but it was a welcome feeling nonetheless.

They sat there in silence for a few moments as Joly caught his breath and took small sips of water, and he could practically feel the anxiousness rolling off Bossuet in waves. He raised his head slowly, his mind feeling strangely heavy, and raised a brow at his friend.

Bossuet shrugged lightly. “Are you sure we shouldn’t go to the hospital? I mean, you’re the doctor so I guess you know but-”

“I’m not a doctor, not yet,” Joly said softly, not unkind, and reached out to place a hand on Bossuet’s thigh. He gave it a reassuring pat as he spoke again: “But, yes, I’m certain. I’m just overtired and hungry, that’s all.”

Bossuet hummed, acquiescing but not entirely convinced. He then reached into his bag, it’s fabric covered in notes and scribbles from friends, like ones you would draw on a cast, and pulled out a small granola bar, offering it to Joly. Joly took it with a smile, but still not sure he could stomach it quite yet, he stuffed it into the pocket of his sweats. Bossuet watched this and said nothing, though his eyes were understanding.

They emerged from the bathroom that day with a strange new bond between the two of them. The granola bar sat on Joly’s desk for a while, uneaten, and Joly ignored the warmth that filled him every time the light reflecting off it’s silver packaging caught his eye, reminding him of warm, calloused hands against his face and strong arms holding him close.

A few weeks passed, Joly’s normal coursework resuming, and the incident began to slip from his mind. Occasionally, he’d find himself once again aware of the ringing in his ear, but had mostly grown accustomed to its presence and brushed any thought of it aside. Bossuet texted him every so often, when he knew he would be working particularly long hours (whether in the form of shifts of volunteer work at the hospital or just studying for an upcoming test) to remind him to get something to eat and drink, and maybe catch up on some sleep.

He even found himself drawn from his work one day to the sound of a knock at the door to his dorm. When he opened it, he found himself face to face with a grinning Bossuet, who lifted a box and shook it with a laugh. It was a box of granola bars, and Bossuet let himself into the dorm in order to install it at Joly’s desk. 

Joly just barely resisted kissing Bossuet then and there, his eyes were glowing in the dim light of his desk lamp as he offered Joly a chocolate chip granola bar.

One day, a month or so after the first incident, Bossuet insisted over a granola bar break that Joly join him at a meeting for activists on campus. Joly raised a brow. He’d never been a confrontational type, and while he was certainly happy to sign petitions and donate when he could, he never thought himself the type to be on the front lines like that.

But then Bossuet gave him a look with those puppy dog eyes of his, and Joly wouldn’t even fathom saying no.

 _Les Amis de L’ABC_ , they called themselves. They met in the backroom of the campus café, evenings on tuesdays and thursdays. At this point, there were only three other members, besides Bossuet and himself.

He met Courfeyrac first, as he entered the café at Bossuet’s side. He was a lively young man with an eccentric yet well put together fashion sense and lilac purple ends to his hair. He’d grinned, broad and charming, as they entered, clapping Bossuet on the shoulder and welcoming them in.

At the front of the room, two other students were scanning over some documents. One of them looked up as they entered, and Joly recognized him faintly. He was tall but not imposing, and he wore a serene expression on his face. 

“I’m Combeferre,” The familiar student said as he crossed the room to them, his voice a warm bass. “Glad to have you join us.”

“Joly,” He answered, lightly taking Combeferre’s offered hand and shaking it. He suppressed the urge to wipe his hand on his pants.

“Are you a medical student?” Combeferre asked as he guided them to a few seats near the front of the room. “I think I recognize you.”

It then clicked for Joly as well. He’d never spoken to Combeferre, but he had seen him in a few of his classes, as well as at the school’s public library. He also recognized the other student as the blond who was often by his side, typing furiously at his laptop. The keys were somewhat loud in the silence of the library, but Joly had found it a welcome distraction from the ringing.

He and Combeferre got along easily, as Bousset and Courfeyrac caught up beside them. Their conversation flowed from their classes to interesting academic papers the other had read, and Joly found he genuinely enjoyed the company. 

They were only interrupted when the blond (“That’s Enjolras, by the way. He’s not normally this rude.” Courfeyrac glared at the aforementioned man, but the student showed no sign of hearing the jab. Courfeyrac shrugged, and smiled.) cleared his throat from the front of the room.

An easy smile rested on Enjolras’ face, and he nodded in greeting to Joly and then to Bossuet.

Then, he started speaking, and Joly was enraptured in an instant.

The man was a whirlwind of passion and fervour that seemingly no one but he could embody. He teemed with light and energy as he spoke, his words careful and poignant. Joly couldn't find it within himself to tear his gaze away from the man.

As he and Bossuet left the café that evening after the meeting, hot chocolates and pamphlets tucked in their gloved hands, Joly couldn't help but look at the world around him with a renewed wonder. It seemed as though Enjolras had removed the blinders from Joly’s vision with only his words. The stars above seemed to shine just a bit brighter, and yet the world seemed just a bit darker. 

“So, how’d you find it? Worth your precious study time?” Bossuet spoke from beside him, his gaze trained on Joly. Joly told himself the flush on his cheeks was most certainly from the cold, and not the warmth of those deep eyes.

“It was-” He thought for a moment. How to quantify a changed perspective so different and yet so welcome?

“It was wonderful,” He says, looking at each cobblestone beneath their feet. “I’ve never felt more ready to overthrow a government before.”

Bossuet laughed, merry and loud, and they made their way through the quiet, late night streets of Paris with a new vigour in their step.

It wasn’t until a few days later that the next- attack, for lack of a better word- occurred. 

It was after another meeting with Les Amis, and they all chose to linger and chat over a few drinks at the café. The backroom was chilled, cut off from the circulation of the main room, and so they all ordered various teas and coffees to warm themselves back up.

The setting sun casted golden rays through the shutters of the room, patterns dancing over the table tops. They sat at the table underneath the grand window near the front of the store, gazing over the patio at the bustling evening streets of Paris. A young man in a pale blue coat and a red scarf, its hems lined with a bright yellow, bustled past, a frazzled expression on his face. Joly watched him go, thoughts drifting to what may be plaguing him.

It was a common pastime for him; watching strangers pass by and picturing their lives in his mind, pondering their destination. This particular young man held himself with a proud stance, yet had a certain shyness on his face; a strange mix. By his hurried gait, he was either late for something important, or running from something else.

As Joly’s stranger turned down the street corner, disappearing from view, the medical student’s attention was drawn back towards the conversation at the table in front of him.

He took a sip of his coffee, though it had since gone cold, and attempted to catch himself back up with the discussion.

They were all chatting merrily. Bossuet was laughing at Courfeyrac’s recounting of some down-on-his-luck young man he had taken in as a roommate. Combeferre was sporting an exasperated yet fond expression as he gazed upon Courfeyrac’s admittedly animated storytelling. Enjolras was scribbling in a notepad, but he looked up every so often to offer a small chuckle or a kind smile.

He had gotten up to place his now empty mug in the to-be-washed bin near the front counter when Joly felt that strange dizziness wash over him, the world tilting. Alarm bells began to ring in his mind, both figuratively and literally, and he swallowed thickly in an attempt to quell the bile in his throat.

He was brought to his knees, heaving, before he could blink, both hands shooting out to keep him from face-planting into the hardwood. His mug shattered on the ground beside him, splintering into pieces with an echoing crash. He felt a twinge of guilt at the destruction of the cup, but that was soon pushed aside as his muscles spasmed and he coughed up what little he had for dinner.

There were hands on his arms and on his back, holding him up. To his left, he could see a flash of gold as Enjolras placed a waste bin beneath his face, and Joly found himself reaching towards him. Enjolras looked somewhat startled, but took Joly’s hand in his own. Enjolras’ skin was cold and soft, a welcome balm to the fire that seemed to be taking over Joly’s blood. The sunset behind Enjolras’ hair shone like a halo, warm and shimmering in the winter sky.

Soon, Joly’s hazy vision filled with the faces of all his new friends. Combeferre pressed a steady hand against the pulse point on his neck, muttering distantly about his increased heart rate, before moving the inside of his wrist to Joly’s forehead, likely checking for a fever. Courfeyrac drew soothing circles on the back of Joly’s other hand with his thumb, his coloured hair a sort of beacon to Joly’s swirling mind. He was speaking to someone that Joly couldn’t see, his voice hushed yet urgent.

Joly couldn’t see Bossuet, but there were familiar hands rubbing soothing motions through his hair, and a familiar voice speaking quiet affirmations in his ear. He couldn’t quite make them out beyond the ringing, much to his chagrin.

"I think I need to see a doctor," He forced out, the words sounding slurred and distant, as though he hadn’t been the one to say them. The short phrase brought another wave of nausea, and his stomach clenched painfully as his hold on Enjolras and Courfeyrac’s hands tightened. 

He could practically feel the silent discussion happening over his head, in the form of concerned and contemplative glances.

Suddenly, the voice of a young woman spoke up next to them. Joly looked up, slowly, and found himself staring at an angel. Her dark hair seemed to glow (though his rational mind told that it was simply the low-hanging lights shining behind her), and her expression was stern with worry, yet her eyes held a spark of concern. And what _beautiful eyes-_

"My car is already started. You two-," She said, her voice rich and melodic, and pointed to Enjolras' and Bossuet. "-help him up. It’s parked out back."

She was a waitress at the café, Joly remarked distantly, recognizing the apron of her uniform, which she wore over a crimson sweater and form-fitting jeans. Joly felt his cheeks burn, and was suddenly grateful for the nausea excusing his flushed complexion.

Enjolras' and Bossuet both must have recognized the urgency in her tone, as the next thing he knew, he was being lifted into strong arms, another pair of hands guiding his bin into his hands once more. He had a moment of déja-vu as he buried his face into Bossuet’s shoulder.

The blast of cold air as they exited the staff door leading to the parking lot behind the café knocked some sort of sense back into Joly, allowing him to be somewhat present as Bossuet helped him into the back seat of a small car. The engine, as promised, was already running, with the heat turned up. It was still cold in the vehicle, but the hum of the heater was a reassuring constant.

Bossuet guided him to lie his head in his lap, and Joly was pliant in his hands. There was a gnawing in his gut, different from the vertigo induced nausea. Something was wrong with him.

A tightness began to rise in his chest as the waitress pulled the car out of the lot, tires squealing slightly as they went. The city passed by in a rush of blurred street lights and cars, as snow melted slowly on the window. Bossuet’s hands stroked soothingly through his hair, and Joly attempted to focus on that feeling, instead of the weight on his chest and in his mind. 

He closed his eyes against the swirling world that raced by, and listened for something past the ringing. The heater was still blaring, a low rumble that was quiet in his ears (quieter than he knew it should be). Cars sped in time with them, and he could hear distant music through the windows as they stopped at a light.

He shifted in and out of a daze as they drove. Bossuet was talking in a low voice with the nice waitress; he couldn’t hear Enjolras. He must have stayed behind.

“Boss?” Joly forced past the burning in the back of his throat, tilting his head back to blink up at Bossuet’s concerned gaze. He had such kind eyes, Joly noted, though not for the first time.

“Yeah?” Bossuet’s tone was soft, and the hand that had stilled in his hair began rubbing soothing circles once again.

Joly stared for a moment, having spoken up without knowing what he was going to say. Bossuet looked back, brow furrowing deeper.

“Joly?” He prompted, and Joly stuttered in a deep breath.

“Am I dying?” He asked, giving a voice to the weight on his chest. It was a question that had nagged in the back of his mind since that first incident. He’d known even then that it hadn’t been the stress over his exams, though maybe it had increased the likeliness of the episode. Stress didn’t mess with his hearing, or his balance. He’d gathered a few scrapes on his elbows from stumbling into the brick buildings that filled their campus.

Pressed against Bossuet’s chest, Joly could feel his breath catch at the grim question. Bossuet was staring at him with a look of mild horror in his warm eyes, his lips parted as he searched for words to say.

Joly closed his eyes and let the world drift away from him before he could get an answer.

He stayed in this half-conscious state for the rest of the ride to the walk-in clinic. He could occasionally hear a car horn blare, or a set of tires squeal, but the streets of Paris were blurred in the windows beyond. If Bossuet did answer, Joly did not hear it past the fog and the ringing. The world felt off-kilter, the tilt dizzying in Joly’s body.

Soon, the car stopped, and the hum of the engine died down. Joly blinked up at the ceiling of the car. It was grey and clean. Then it began to twirl, so he closed his eyes again.

“Joly?” An unfamiliar voice called, and a hand pressed against his shoulder, jostling him ever so slightly from his haze. “We’re here.”

“Should we just take him to the hospital? I think he passed out for a bit there,” Another voice broke through, and this one Joly recognized; Bossuet. He opened his eyes to see the waitress- _Musichetta_ , the name on her tag proclaimed. There was a heart inked next to it in silver Sharpie.

“No. No hospital,” He grit out, pushing himself up with his palms. The world tilted slightly off its axis, and a hand steadied him from behind as he nearly swayed from his seat.

“Are you sure?” Bousset asked, a hint of nervousness in his tone. Joly nodded, immediately regretting the action as his stomach flipped.

Musichetta and Bossuet shared a look over his head, and Joly buried the hint of annoyance that stirred in his gut. _I’m right here!_ He wanted to shout, but he clamped his mouth shut as he pulled himself from Musichetta’s car.

Bossuet took his right side and Musichetta his left as he walked on unsteady feet towards the illuminated sign that read the name of the clinic in blockly blue letters. There was a weight in his chest and a ringing in his ear, and Joly felt he was going to die.

The time in the waiting room was agonizing. Each second the hand on the clock ticked, the ringing in his ears grew to a further unbearable degree, and the bright lights reflecting on the grimy tiled flooring only worsened his nausea. There were times, at the beginning of his shift, that Joly found the clinical lights of hospital fluorescents comforting. As he sat there with a trash can clutched in his clammy palms and a cold sweat on his neck, he wished everything would just disappear.

Musichetta was speaking to the receptionist, checking him in, and if Joly focused, he could hear her dulcet tones beyond the shrillness and the seemingly drunken world. Bossuet, however, was silent next to him, a peculiarity for the normally boisterous man. Joly reached a hand towards him, and Bossuet took it gratefully, appearing to need the contact just as much as Joly.

About half an hour after the initial bout of vertigo, the nausea and dizziness began to subside. His ears were soon filled with the idle chatter of his fellow patients and the clacking of the receptionist’s acrylic nails against her keyboard, and not the high-pitched noise that had been plaguing him.

He was soon called into one of the examination rooms, near the end of a hall lined with charts and instruments. A scale at the end of the walkway reflected the lighting overhead in its silver plating. The assistant nurse that had come to fetch him settled him onto the bed, the waxy plastic covering crinkling under his palms.

He waited only a few moments, kicking his legs in his anxiousness and blinking through the rest of the nausea that swelled in his gut. 

The doctor was an older gentleman, with a pair of pince-nez glasses perched on the bridge of his nose and salt-and-pepper hair neatly slicked back. He smiled at Joly as he entered, but Joly couldn’t find it in himself to return it.

The questioning seemed routine at first, the doctor asking about his symptoms, the length of their pervasion, and whether an incident like this had happened before. The doctor nodded, a grim look on his face, as Joly recounted the story of his collapse after his medical exam.

The doctor seemed pleasantly surprised to learn of Joly’s studies, and he made idle small talk about his experience in medical school as he entered Joly’s data into the computer.

After a few moments, he began conducting more specific tests, on the function of Joly’s ear.

First, Joly was put through a hearing assessment. He hadn't truly noticed any sort of hearing loss up to this point, but when the doctor pressed play on one of the frequencies and nothing but silence filled the room, a sinking feeling enveloped Joly’s gut.

It was mainly the lower frequencies that he couldn't hear, though there were a number in the higher register that were lost to him. The midrange ones, where most people spoke, were fine. The doctor presumed this to be the reason for Joly’s unconscious ignorance to the loss of his own hearing.

Next, he endured a few tests pertaining to his balance. Judging by the pinched look between the doctor’s brow, he didn't pass.

The doctor sent him off with a referral for a blood test and an MRI. He was also referred to an otorhinolaryngologist for continued testing on the function of his inner ear. The weight of the referral papers in Joly’s hands felt unthinkably heavy, and a similar ache was resting on his chest.

Bossuet and Musichetta both stood as he walked back into the waiting room, coming to greet him with equally worried expressions. He could feel the questions in their eyes burning against his back as he walked past them, his breathing shallow.

He stumbled out the door, the glass cool under his trembling hand as he pushed it open. Bossuet and Musichetta both called after him, but he couldn’t hear it beyond the blood rushing in his ears.

The papers in his hand were proof; there was something wrong with him. He could be dying, and there was nothing he could do about it. His two years of medical school felt for naught in that moment. How could he help anyone else if he couldn’t even save himself?

He hadn’t noticed he’d stopped cold in the middle of the sidewalk until Musichetta guided him with gentle hands to sit on the curb, Bossuet steady at his other side. The pavement was icy, the chill seeping through his jeans, but he couldn’t bring himself to care.

Tears burned in his eyes and in his nose, and he rubbed furiously at them with his sleeve, the blue fabric slowly darkening as the drops continued to fall. He was near the point of rubbing the skin of his cheeks raw when Bossuet pried his hands away with a careful but incessant touch. Joly heaved in choked breaths, sobs breaking as he stifled them in his throat, and Musichetta pulled him close to her chest, one hand steadying him and the other in his hair. (Somewhere, in the back of his mind, a small voice reminded him that he barely knew this woman, but he couldn’t bring himself to care. He felt safe in her arms). Bossuet wrapped around him from behind, his chin on Joly’s shoulder.

They stayed there for a while, ignoring the strange looks from passersby, though there were few anyways, what with the late hour and odd location. When Joly’s breath finally evened out, he explained what the doctor told him, and apologized for soaking Musichetta’s uniform.

The waitress just smiled and waved him off, and Joly couldn’t resist returning the look with a half-hearted smile of his own. Musichetta’s expression brightened at this, and Joly felt an inexplicable urge to see that light every day of his life.

They all shuffled back to Musichetta’s car, a welcome escape from the early spring chill. Their conversation turned to booking Joly’s next appointments, and he shuddered involuntarily at the thought of having to take the public bus more often, on top of his commute to the hospital. Neither he nor Bossuet had a vehicle, and while their spot on campus made it easy to walk to their classes, the specialized hospital Joly had been referred to was a good distance away. Bossuet brought this up, and Musichetta looked thoughtful for a moment.

“As long as you book the appointments around my shifts, I’d be happy to drive you,” She said after a moment, watching Joly for his reaction. He looked at her, fully aware of the dumbfounded expression he was wearing, eyes wide and jaw slacked.

“You hardly know me,” He said, eyebrows raised behind his bangs. “What if I’m like, a murderer, or something?” 

Musichetta laughed, a bright and kind sound, and Bossuet chuckled beside him as well. Joly sent him a half-hearted glare, the look betrayed by the smile gracing his lips.

“I doubt that,” She said finally, turning around from the front seat to face him. “I know Enjolras, and he doesn’t strike me as the type to keep bad company. Plus, you two are cute. I won’t pass up the chance to get to know you better.”

She said it so casually, and Bossuet choked on his own spit. Joly clapped him weakly on the back, and then beamed.

“Okay,” He said, his watery smile spreading from ear to ear. “Thank you.”

And thus began their odd arrangement; Musichetta sent Joly copies of her schedule, and Joly booked his appointments on her days off. Bossuet always tagged along when he could, which was more often than not.

The first batch of testing was simply a blood test, which was something Joly was more or less comfortable with, donating blood at the hospital as often as he could. He always got a little lightheaded afterwards, so he found himself in a familiar position after that appointment, his head in Bossuet’s lap in the backseat of Musichetta’s car, some sort of classic rock playing softly from the radio. They shared a carrot cake at the Musain afterwards, and for once, the butterflies in his stomach were from the pleasant company, and not his strange nausea.

Those results came back clear (though it was suggested he get more iron in his diet), and so he took up the referral for an MRI. This was a slightly more anxiety-inducing procedure. Joly had never been particularly claustrophobic, but being in that deafening, confined machine wasn’t exactly a pleasant experience. The weather outside was nice that day, so Bossuet and Musichetta took him for a picnic in a local park, and Joly thrived in the large, peaceful space.

The MRI results negated any problems with his brain and his spine, and so his next appointment was with the otorhinolaryngologist. This time was more focused on his ability to balance. He underwent multiple tests, one of them including a computer-powered rotating chair. He did not like that one. 

By the end of it, he was feeling all over the place and incredibly nauseous. The doctor told him to expect a call within the next few weeks, after they processed the data.

After that one, Joly had Musichetta just drive him home and then fell asleep, not even bothering to climb under the blankets on his bed.

The call came while he was out to breakfast at the Musain with Bossuet and Musichetta, before her shift. It was a pleasant spring morning, the smell of icy frost on the slowly thawing grass in the air. The café itself was warm, the heating turned up and a fake fire blazing near the couches. The three of them were curled up on one of these couches, the clink of the cash register in distance. Joly had his legs kicked up over Bossuet and Musichetta’s laps. Over the sound of idle chatter and cutlery against ceramic, he almost didn’t notice his phone buzzing on the table. Bossuet, however, did, and he nodded towards it.

Joly picked it up with a nervous hand. He’d been anticipating this call for weeks, and the moment had finally come. 

However, it was not the voice of the doctor that greeted his hesitant, “Hello?”, but that of his receptionist, asking to book an appointment to discuss his results. Something twisted in his gut; they had found something.

He could feel Bossuet and Musichetta’s worried gazes burning on his skin, and he shifted under the attention. He conferred with Musichetta in a low voice, discussing the best time for the both of them, told the receptionist the date and time (two days from then, at 12:00 pm), and then hung up.

His food grew cold on the coffee table. He didn’t have much of an appetite after that.

The two day wait seemed unbearable. He wandered the halls of his hospital in a sort of daze, and found himself barely paying attention to his lectures. At night, he spent hours staring at his textbooks, but never read a word. His mind jumped from diagnosis to diagnosis, each gradually growing more and more drastic. By the time Thursday arrived, he was certain he was dying.

Bossuet and Musichetta both offered to come into the appointment with him, but he politely refused. He didn't want them to hear the diagnosis of his own death with him. He thanked them, clasping their hands in his, before he was called in. As he began to turn away, Bossuet joked, “You're making it sound like we're never going to see you again.” Joly forced a smile, too wide and too disingenuous.

The doctor sat him down and read him the results.

 _Ménière's disease._ That was the official diagnosis. It was an affliction of the inner ear, one with no precise cause, nor cure.

“Is it fatal?” Joly asked, his voice barely a whisper. If he spoke any louder, he feared he might break. His right ear, the only one affected, was ringing.

The doctor shook his head, a sympathetic expression on his face. “No. However, there are several long term effects. Permanent tinnitus is one of them, though it seems that this one has already taken form. Your balance, so far, is promising, but there is the possibility of a constant imbalance in the future. You might want to look into using a cane or a walker if the symptoms worsen.”

Joly could only nod, his mind racing yet stagnant all at once.. 

“Another symptom that we have already noted in you is hearing loss. Yours is very minimal at the moment, and so you shouldn’t need a hearing aid now. It is possible you might in the future. Now, there are various ways we can go about to ease the symptoms, but there is no end all with this disorder.”

Joly left the office with a note on his phone full of various treatments and resources, including an online group of those living with similar chronic illnesses to Ménière's that the doctor suggested he join.

Medication-wise, he was given a prescription of promethazine for the nausea during his bouts of vertigo, and a recommendation of a diuretic for long term use. He was also instructed in a noninvasive procedure known as positive pressure therapy, and the frankly unnerving device that applied the practice (“It’s called a Meniett pulse generator. You’ll stick this tube in like a pair of earphones, and it'll send pulses through your ear canal. You can employ this practice about three times a day, at five minute intervals.”). He was then referred to an audiologist to see about getting a hearing aid, should he ever need one.

“If none of these things lessen your symptoms, be in contact. We’ll discuss the more intensive procedures then.” The doctor said, and then, about forty-five minutes after he entered the room, Joly was sent on his way, his life seemingly turned upside-down.

Bossuet and Musichetta, once again, both stood to greet him as soon as he entered the waiting room, arms open. He fell into their embrace, and didn’t try to stop his tears from soaking Musichetta’s blouse. He couldn't have, if he tried. He didn’t want to leave their arms, to have to face the world again.

They stood there for a while, wrapped around each other, until Bossuet and Musichetta guided him to the car. She drove to Joly’s and Bossuet’s now shared apartment, having already memorised the address, in a silent agreement to not leave Joly on his own for a while. Joly was thankful. 

They were mostly silent the entire way, save for Joly’s stuttered breathing and the hum of the engine. The buildings raced by, a blur in Joly’s distant gaze. Bossuet took his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. Joly was sure they were curious about the diagnosis, but neither of them pressed.

His hands were shaking so bad he couldn’t unlock the door to the apartment, and so Musichetta did instead. He felt useless. The doctor had planted the idea of installing a railing in the shower, and had even inquired whether Joly lived alone. He seemed relieved when Joly mentioned a roommate, though that term started to seem more like a babysitter. He felt his breath pick up, and forced himself to be thankful for Bossuet and Musichetta’s presence. 

They migrated to the living room couch, and Joly pulled one of the pillows into his arms and buried his face in it with a groan.

Bossuet chuckled sympathetically, a hand on Joly’s shoulder and his fingers twining in his hair. Musichetta placed a hand on Joly’s thigh and smoothed calming circles into it with her thumb.

“You want to talk about it?” Musichetta asked, and there was a hint of curiosity in her voice, but it was mainly concern. Joly knew they wouldn’t fault him if he stayed silent.

However, the moment he opened his mouth, the words came pouring out.

He told them everything; the doctor’s explanation of the disease and its effects, and the long list of therapies and drugs he’d been prescribed. Bossuet and Musichetta listened intently, all of their focus on him, and a strange warmth began to replace the ache in Joly’s chest. They asked questions and were eager to understand every way they could help; he even showed them how to use the Meniett pulse generator.

Afterwards, he felt almost out of breath, and there was a certain tiredness in his bones, but it felt as though a weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He wasn’t alone in this.

Musichetta’s fingers smoothed over his own, and she gently lifted his hand to press a whisper of a kiss to his palm. His heart fluttered in his chest as she curled their fingers together, her hold secure and warm. Joly swallowed, and attempted to blink back the tears that had begun brewing in his eyes once more, to no avail. 

Musichetta’s expression pinched as she took notice of the trails flowing down his face, a sad hum in the back of her throat as she used her free hand to brush a thumb across his cheek, wiping away the tears. Bossuet pressed another kiss to the crown of his hair, murmuring sweet nothings against him. Joly had never felt more warm, despite the cold that weighed in his stomach.

They sat there, the three of them, for what could have been hours. Joly curled back into Bossuet’s chest, Musichetta with a protective arm around them both. He cried a few more times, till he truly had no more tears left, and Musichetta brought him a glass of water with lemon and orange slices floating in it; his favourite, though he had never told her that. 

He sipped his drink and finally allowed himself to relax slightly. He watched as Musichetta gathered blankets and pillows from his bedroom and dumped them on the couch. She left again, then returned carrying the biggest sweater Joly owned, an oversized mashup of colours and patterns; he’d found it at a thrift store once, and it was the softest thing he had ever touched. He couldn’t abandon it. It had become one of his most dear possessions, keeping him company on restless nights, when he stared at the stars and dreamed of home.

Musichetta helped ease the sweater over his head, smiling as she smoothed back his hair from where it had become rumpled by the fabric. He could hear Bossuet tutting about in the kitchen, the sound of a kettle clicking on traveling from that room.

Musichetta left him with another kiss to his hair as she got up and searched through the box of movies he had never bothered unpacking properly.

She hummed in approval, seemingly having found one that met her standards, and placed the disc in the DVD player. She then joined Joly back on the couch, a kind smile on her expression as she crawled under the blankets with him, one hand coming to rest at the nape of his neck, fingers combing through his hair. He found himself practically melting into the touch, and Musichetta laughed softly.

He looked up at her with wide eyes, a wonderful sort of feeling in his stomach, and she gazed back at him with a warm expression, bright with a spark of mirth. Her lips were parted slightly, on the edge of speaking, and Joly found himself leaning in closer, until he could feel the puffs of her breath against his face.

She closed the distance between them, barely a flutter of a kiss, but it was everything to him. He brought a slightly shaking hand up to brush a strand of that shimmering dark hair from her eyes, and in doing so, brought them together again. Her lip chap tasted of strawberries.

Footsteps behind them sent Joly reeling back slightly, and he turned to Bossuet with a strange sinking feeling in his stomach, but Bossuet just smiled.

“Have you room for a third in there?” He asked, setting down three steaming mugs on the end table. Joly nodded, in a sort of daze, as Bossuet climbed in with them. He brushed a calloused thumb across Joly’s cheek.

“You’re blushing,” He said softly, and Joly felt his cheeks heat further at the comment. Bossuet and Musichetta both beamed, and Joly couldn’t help the nervous laugh that bubbled from his own chest.

The movie onscreen began to play as Bossuet captured Joly’s lips in his own, the kiss soft and sweet. Bossuet was warm against him, and he tasted of tea and sugar. Musichetta pressed a kiss against his cheek as they pulled apart, and they all settled against each other under a worn quilt and let the movie play.

Joly was fast asleep before the first scene was over.

As the weeks went on, Joly took to constantly running his hands over railings, or leaning against countertops and walls, just in case he fell. He had a few more bouts of vertigo, but they were far less severe, and the promethazine helped keep the nausea at bay. There were times when the world would sway around him, and he would stumble into someone passing on the street, or into a wall, so Bossuet took him out to buy a cane, and Joly never parted with it. It was a simple thing, made of a deep coloured wood with an elegant pattern carved into it. It wasn't necessary for him to keep his balance at all times, but it was reassuring nonetheless.

The first time he took it out (after much convincing from Musichetta and Bossuet), it was to meet Combeferre. He felt slightly out of sorts, being barely 22 years old and having to walk with a cane, but Bossuet and Musichetta had reassured that it actually made him look rather dashing (they supported their point with a handful of kisses peppered over his face).

He and Combeferre had lapsed into a comfortable silence, taking their time to savour their meal before their long lecture. It wasn't often they found themselves alone, just the two of them, but it was something Joly always looked forward to. 

“You know, Alan Shepard had Ménière's disease,” Combeferre said suddenly, breaking the silence. Joly glanced up from where he was glaring forlornly at Combeferre’s leftover fries. He had been told to limit his intake of foods with a high sodium content.

“Who?” He was sure he recognized the name from somewhere, maybe Combeferre had brought him up before, but at the moment Joly drew a blank.

“Alan Shepard. He was the first American in space.” Combeferre explained, and Joly smiled a bit.

“They sent someone with Ménière's disease into space?” That didn't seem like the best idea, what with the vertigo and dizziness.

“Yeah. Well, he hadn’t been diagnosed at the time of his first spaceflight, but,” Combeferre paused, seemingly counting something in his head. “Even after his diagnosis, he was the fifth man on the moon. Apollo 14. He played golf.”

Joly laughed, and Combeferre let out a low chuckle as well. 

“I think he went through some sort of surgery, which is why they let him go.” There was a hint of a question in Combeferre’s eyes, and Joly sighed.

The doctor had said he made an excellent candidate for many of the possible procedures, but still Joly felt unsure about going through with them. The risks seemed to outweigh the benefits. His symptoms were manageable at the moment, and he didn’t want the surgery to go wrong and for him to lose his hearing completely, or anything else to that degree. Maybe one day, he would go through with it, but he wasn’t planning on going to the moon anytime soon, so he figured he had plenty of time to decide.

Combeferre seemed to notice his hesitance, and just nodded, an understanding smile on his face. Sometimes, Joly wondered if Combeferre could read minds.

“Well, either way, Alan Shepard didn’t define himself by it. He was still a kick-ass astronaut and pilot, and overall pretty brilliant. Don’t let it define you either. You’re still Joly.” 

Joly left the café that day, cane in hand, with a strange feeling of hopefulness in his chest.

Over the next couple of months, things with the cane were going well, and Joly felt far more comfortable leaving the house with it than without it. There was only one incident, while he was walking across campus to the Musain for a meeting. He was lost in his own head, tired from a late shift at the hospital the night before, when someone knocked into his cane, sending his balance off-kilter. He dropped hard to his knees, and the cane hit ground with an equally forceful thud. He glanced up as the stranger, whom he distantly recognized as the young man in the blue coat and red scarf he had seen the night he went to the walk-in clinic, called back a frantic ‘sorry!’ before taking off again. He was always running, it seemed.

“Are you alright?” An unfamiliar voice asked, and it wasn’t that of the hurried stranger. Joly looked to the side to find a face full of freckles and two wide, concerned eyes that were lined with a white eyeliner. The young student was reaching out with manicured hands, though they hovered without touching Joly. He was incredibly grateful for that.

“Yeah, sorry. I have-” He gestured loosely to his cane as he stood on shaking legs. “I’m Joly,” He added, unsure of how to finish his sentence. He awkwardly brushed at the gravel on his pant legs.

“Jean Prouvaire.” The student said with a smile. It was a very sweet smile, with dimples and rosy cheeks. Joly could almost feel the anxiety wash away as he returned that smile.

“But, my friends call me Jehan,” Prouvaire added, then glanced at something scribbled on their palm in glittery purple ink. He raised a brow at Prouvaire’s comment, wondering whether or not they wanted him to address them as Jehan as well. Prouvaire seemed to notice this hesitation, and their grin brightened as they continued. “You can call me Jehan, Monsieur Joly, if you’ll point me in the direction of the café Musain.”

Joly laughed, his grin spreading, and Prouvaire looked amused. “The Musain? That’s where I’m headed. Allow me.”

He held out an elbow for Prouvaire to grasp, all reservations about falling ill forgotten. The act itself seemed out of character for Joly, when he truly thought about it, but something about Jean Prouvaire made him feel more comfortable than he thought possible on a bustling sidewalk, brimming with people and their germs.

Prouvaire looked delighted at the offering, and gladly took hold of Joly’s arm.

“Are you attending the meeting for les Amis de l’ABC? I found this flyer posted on my dorms bulletin and found it rather inviting.” Prouvaire’s voice was light and excited. Their energy was infectious, and Joly soon found the ache that seemed permanently settled in his bones had lightened.

“Yes, actually,” Joly answered.

“Delightful!”

And off they went.

There were four new members at the meeting of Les Amis de l’ABC. Jean Prouvaire tagged along with Joly, and immediately started talking to the other members, who all seemed as enamored with them as Joly had been when they first met. Jehan seemed to get along with everyone, and ended up discussing a fight with another newcomer. Jehan seemed to find the whole ordeal very romantic, despite the rather gruesome descriptions given by the man, whose name Joly caught as being Bahorel.

Enjolras stood at the front of the room and introduced a childhood friend of his, Feuilly, who looked rather bashful at all the attention, but said hello with a friendly smile. He had a slight, barely noticeable accent that was explained by his recent return from Poland, where he had been studying abroad for many years. He was a charming young man, and Enjolras’ eyes practically lit up in admiration every time he looked at him. Feuilly was brilliant, and Joly knew they were going to get along swell.

Bossuet had also brought a friend whom Joly had met a handful of times, and liked immensely. An activism group didn’t exactly seem like Grantaire’s scene, but as soon as Enjolras started talking and R couldn’t seem to look away, Joly let out a snort of understanding. Bossuet smirked next to him.

Musichetta watched them all from her position behind the counter with a fond roll of her eyes, and pressed a kiss to his and Bossuet’s cheeks when she brought them their drinks.

It was wonderful.

Still, it’s hard for Joly to go out sometimes, and that’s okay.

Instead, Bossuet tries his hand at cooking (which typically leads to them ordering some form of takeout instead) and Musichetta prepares a romantic supper for them at their dinner table, complete with their fancy cutlery and dishes, and special napkins with fun prints on them. The smell of Bath and Body Works candles permeates the air, overpowering the odor of disinfectant. They both listen and reassure instead of ridiculing him when he stands in front of the mirror for the fourth time that day, pulling at his own tongue in worry.

Enjolras has a Skype group chat for Les Amis de l’ABC, and will not hesitate to have their meeting online if Joly asks. If it’s too short of notice, Enjolras sets up his laptop in the back room of the Musain, and lets Joly call in from the safety of his own home. A few months after the diagnosis, Enjolras proposes a new branch of their activism, advocating against ableism, and turns to Joly for guidance. Enjolras returns Joly’s blinding grin with a bright smile of his own.

Combeferre takes notes for him on the days where his medicine doesn’t seem to help, and spends his evenings with Joly reviewing the lessons. Their textbooks are typically a mess over the table of Courfeyrac and Combeferre’s shared apartment, a place where Joly feels almost as comfortable as his own home. Courfeyrac hums pleasantly from his perch on the couch, and brings them coffee and tea when the nights grow long.

Jehan becomes a soothing presence at his side when the side-effects of his medications grow almost unbearable, scratching gently at Joly’s scalp with their floral nails as they talk about whatever has peaked their interest that day; the topics range from a philosophical debate they’d had with one of their classmates, to a particularly interesting cloud they’d seen on the way there. Their voice washes over Joly, carrying with it a sense of serenity that only Jean Prouvaire can bring.

Grantaire provides a shoulder to lean on and a drink when Joly’s meds allow it. They sit in Grantaire’s apartment, filled with the smell of drying paints, and simply bask in each other’s presence, not sharing a word between them. It serves as a sort of reset when Joly’s brain wants to go into overdrive, and Grantaire doesn’t seem to mind the company.

Bahorel and Feuilly both have their names and numbers written next to the grocery list on the fridge for when Joly can’t brave the crowds. It’s not often that this happens, but it’s reassuring nonetheless. Every time one of them is over, they add a little doodle next to their name on the sticky note; Feuilly’s is surrounded by corn poppies and smiley faces, whereas Bahorel writes short affirmations, including, though not limited to, a single, _‘Fuck yeah!’._

It’s hard sometimes, but, with the company he keeps, he knows he will be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> you can check out the companion art piece i made over on my tumblr, @ eveninglesmis ! i also take requests for fics!!
> 
> i think victor hugo's ghost possesses me when i write about les mis because normally i can barely get a thousand words out but when it's les mis i just cant stop bros.
> 
> i think both bath and body works and granola bar companies should sponsor me for this
> 
> kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!


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